Dead Man Walker by Duffy Brown Page A

outcome had more to do with the fact that she’d signed an airtight prenup than with me being an ace attorney. At the moment we were sort of enemies. The divorce accounted for the enemy part, that we shared a dog named Bruce Willis and a kiss or two accounted for the
sort of
part. Reagan was the double espresso with a shot of Red Bull part of my life . . . energy, excitement with hair-raising consequences.
    I heard the door open downstairs, then footsteps echoing through the big house that dated back to when Sherman had parked his unwelcome mangy Northern butt in our town, and Reagan Summerside joined us in the bathroom. She had on black slacks, a white blouse probably from her consignment shop located in that Victorian she now owned, and she was carrying that big ugly plastic purse the color of a Yield sign. Business garb. Usually she was in something denim, hair pinned up like she forgot what a comb looked like and a sprinkled doughnut in her hand. During a heat wave last August she wore short shorts and a halter top that caused a five-car pileup over on Whitaker and was oblivious to it all.
    â€œBoone, it is you,” Reagan said. “Thought I heard your irritating voice. What are you and Mercedes doing up here in the bathroom? It’s nice and all but where’s Mr. Adkins? I’m here to give him a price on furniture he wants to sell over at my shop and— Sweet Jesus in heaven!”
    Not breathing, Reagan looked from Conway to me then slowly slouched against the tile wall. “What did you go and do?”
    â€œMe?”
    â€œYou had issues with him and then some.”
    â€œSo did half the people in this town.”
    Sirens sounded in the distance and Mercedes smacked her palm to her forehead. “Now the fly’s in the butter for sure. Think it’s too late to make a run for it?”
    The sirens stopped outside the big white frame house, followed by the door opening, someone yelling “Police!”, more footsteps up the staircase, and Detective Aldeen Ross and two uniforms crowding into the tight space.
    â€œA dead guy in a tub, it must be Monday,” Ross groused, taking in the scene. “So, are you all holding a convention in here or what ’cause forensics is going to have themselves a hissy over corrupting the crime scene like this. It’ll take a month of Sundays and a bucket of fried chicken from Sisters to calm them down, I can tell you that.”
    Ross was “born short and squashed flat,” as my grandma Hilly used to say. Ross gave new meaning to
yo-yo dieting
and that she had powdered sugar on her blue suit suggested skinny Ross the Cranky was headed back to Ross the Pleasantly Plump.
    â€œYou do this?” Ross said to me and pointed at a fancy blue pillow on the floor with holes on both sides, suggesting the killer shot through it to muffle the sound.
    â€œI know there’s talk about me and Adkins,” I added before Ross could. “We didn’t get along, but murder is a whole lot of not getting along.”
    â€œThe man never was a saint sitting on a cloud in anyone’s book.” Ross said, then added, “Della Mae next door called saying she heard shots is what got us here. Mostly she wanted to tell the female contingent down at the police station that you showed up wearing our favorite jeans with the blue pinstriped shirt.”
    â€œFavorite jeans?” I repeated trying to keep up.
    â€œLike it or not, lawyer boy, you’re fine eye candy and we all truly do appreciate it early in the morning like this.” Ross turned to Mercedes. “I just saw Reagan here over at the Cakery Bakery getting a sprinkled doughnut so that makes you a prime suspect at the moment. Care to enlarge on the situation?”
    Mercedes held up her hands. “Well, there you go. I get the finger-point and this time I’m innocent as new driven snow. But I do have my suspicions who done the old boy in.”
    Mercedes